


Touched

by crazyjane



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, Heavy Angst, Other, Religious Fanaticism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyjane/pseuds/crazyjane
Summary: Credence Barebone. Orphan child. Tormented. Damned.(An exploration of Credence's backstory.)





	Touched

**Author's Note:**

> For this story, I decided to take out all but the barest mention of the Modesty Barebone bait-and-switch. This is all about Credence; how a young orphan became a storm.
> 
> The title and the epigraphs are taken from songs by VAST. Parts 1, 2, 3, and 5 are taken from 'Touched'. Epigraphs for parts 4 and 6 are taken from 'Here'.
> 
> Feedback is love.

 

_Touched, you say that I am too_

_So much of what you say is true_

_11 years old_

He thought it was a sudden gust of wind, slamming shut the door and making the windows tremble in their frames. Not Ma. She knew. She always knew, and he was always to blame. Her hand cracked across his face hard enough to send him stumbling off-balance. She watched him totter and fall, saw him raise his hand to protect himself, saw the tears. There was no pity in her gaze. Her hands gripped his hair, tugging cruelly to force him to bow his head. She began to pray.

 ‘Hear my cry, O Lord’. He knew this psalm; she said it every time. ‘You have been my refuge, a strong tower against the foe’. _The devil. That’s me. I’m of the devil. I am weak. I should beg God to help me_ , but he could not say the words, could not even pray silently.

 She finished her prayer, ‘Amen’. _Now the punishment. For my wickedness. To save me. To save my soul_. Even as she hauled him to his feet, though, part of him - the devil, way back in his mind - was screaming with rage, telling him _push her, hurt her, tear her to pieces_. He fought down the urge until it was locked deep inside him, a terrible burning in his chest and around his heart, and meekly allowed himself to be dragged to the top of the stairs. She waited for him to offer her his belt, winding it around her first so that the buckle end dangled down in front of him. ‘Hold out your hands, Credence’.

He couldn’t help himself - he flinched. Every time, as hard as he tried to keep his hands still, his weakness made him try to pull away. Ma knew what to do. She grabbed his wrist, and the buckle cut into his palm over and over again. Punishing him. Purifying him.

She made him count. Even though he had never been to school, he could count very high. This time, it seemed that Ma would be merciful. She stopped at twenty. ‘Other hand,’ she ordered, and the tiny hope in him died. Of course there could be no mercy. Not for him. The belt came down, and he counted. When she was finally finished, she dropped the belt at his feet, and he listened to her footsteps on the stairs moving down, away from him. He stayed where he was, on his knees, his ragged hands outstretched, dripping. Trying desperately not to move, not to breathe too loudly. Not to do anything that might make her turn around.

Only when he heard her take a seat at the table and open her Bible did he let himself slump against the wall, and be claimed by shaking and his silent tears.

 

**********************************

 

_Demigods and hungry ghosts_

_And God, God knows I’m not at home_

 

_14 years old_

 

‘Hey, Bible freaks! Burned any witches lately?’ 

The boys lounging on the stoop across the street laughed as though it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. They slapped their companion on the back, waving at the orphanage girls, blowing kisses.

Poverty Hollow. Home. How he hated it.

‘Ignore them, girls, they are ignorant and in the grip of temptation,’ said Ma firmly. ‘Now take your leaflets, and don’t dump them. I will know.’ Obediently, the orphan girls lined up to each receive a small stack of flimsy, badly-printed paper on which the ink was already smearing. Last of all she handed Credence his much larger burden, a heavy satchel stuffed full. _My sin is greater. I must bear more for the sake of my soul._  Trying not to resent the girls already walking briskly away. Trying not to hate Ma. Wanting only to please her, to please God. He settled the satchel carefully across his shoulders, the strap dragging over the barely-healed cuts beneath his rough clothing. ‘Across the street,’ Ma ordered. He hesitated. Surely she didn’t mean - ‘Those boys are in need of saving. I will not risk the girls, but _you_  are in no danger from them.’ When he still didn’t move, she gave him a sharp shove forward. ‘Go. Or be punished here in the street for your disobedience’. That threat - that she would expose him to the world - was enough to get him moving.

The boys on the stoop saw him coming, of course. They pushed themselves to their feet, dropping their cigarettes, wide grins on their faces as they waited for him. He ducked his head and mutely held out the first handful of leaflets from the satchel. They ignored his outstretched arm, moved to surround him, whistling, jeering, mocking.

‘Whassamatter, bible boy? Cat got your tongue?’

‘ _Black_  cat got his tongue, betcha!’

‘Better pray those witches don’t curse ya!’

One of them fell to his knees, raising his hands in mocking prayer. ‘Oh, save me, save me, preacher boy! I done wrong, I’m a sinner!’ Credence watched, amazed, from the edges of his vision. Didn’t they know it did no good to beg?

Tiring of the game, they began pushing him between them, knocking the papers from his hand, pulling his satchel over his head and emptying it on the sidewalk. He clutched at the falling leaflets, but succeeded only in slipping on the rapidly shredding mess. He went down hard, feeling the scabs on his back pull open again. Instinctively, he curled into a ball. His mouth opened, but he locked down in his chest the screams he knew wanted to come out.

Before the first kick landed, his shirt was already half-soaked in blood. After that it was one impact after another, a quick burst of pain immediately transforming into a bone deep ache. His silent acceptance only seemed to encourage them to land harder blows. _Fight back. Rip them, tear them_. He jammed his hands over his ears, shaking his head, _no, no,_  unsure if was denying the beating or devil inside him. With his eyes squeezed shut, he never saw the kick coming, but the snap of his nose breaking echoed through his skull and a bright, terrible agony exploded through his face. He tasted blood in his throat.

Someone was howling. He could hear it, like wind through gaps in a wall. There were screams, cries of surprise and pain, running feet thudding on the sidewalk. Gingerly, he opened his eyes, squinting through swelling eyes - and froze. Above him swirled what looked for all the world to be a small tornado, but black, torn shreds whirling wildly. And the howling, the howling, he knew it, knew it was evil, the evil inside him, the evil that he had let loose. Even as he watched it dissolve, he felt it becoming part of him again.

When he finally made it home, bloodstained, bruised, his suit ripped and stained, Ma just watched him stagger past her and haul himself up the stairs. Only when he lowered himself to his knees, belt in his hands, did she push back from the table and move, with measured steps that were somehow more awful than the sound of boots hitting his body, to administer his punishment.

This time, he did not flinch.

 

***********************************

 

_I’ll never find someone quite as touched as you_

 

_17 years old_

 

He knew he shouldn’t listen to this man. This soft-spoken, well-dressed man who approached him cautiously, like he was a frightened animal cornered in the damp, stinking alley where he’d run for refuge. This man, this _Mister Graves_ , who talked to him as though he wasn’t evil, wasn’t stained in his soul. Wasn’t _damned._

Every word was a sweet poison, offering him everything he’d never known - acceptance, comfort, hope. Everything he didn’t deserve, but because he was weak, he craved it. And was it so much to ask? He knew he was hell-bound. Surely he could have this, just one person who didn’t shy away or spit on him in the street, call him a freak, lock him in the basement to keep him from corrupting the girls with his very presence? _Beat_  him? Just this one?

 _Is he the devil, come to lead me further into sin? No. No, he is kind. Too kind. He wants only to help me._ Slowly, he raised his face, fearing what he would see (disgust, fear, hatred, _get thee behind me, Satan_ ), but there was only warmth in Graves’ eyes, only gentleness in his touch as he took Credence’s hand and pried open his fingers. Only sadness in his voice as he breathed, ‘Oh, Credence. Oh, you poor boy. Let me care for you.’ And from his coat he drew a wand. Just the sight of it, so close, stirred the black whirlwind in him. _Take it. Use it. Free me._

He didn’t realise he’d pulled away until Graves caught at his arm. ‘It’s all right. Let me help. I know you won’t hurt me’. _But I will. I will. I hurt everyone. I’ll hurt you and I’ll damn you and you’ll run from me, you should run, I should run, I, I, I_ , but the man was touching his palm with just the tip of the wand, and the pain was drowning in the sudden heat that stole into his hand. ‘This is all I can do for now, I’m sorry, but it should help a little. Credence? Look. Please.’ Reluctantly, he turned his head, looked down, trying not to hope.

He could just make out where new scars joined the lattice of old punishments that crisscrossed his palm - but the torn, bleeding wounds were just ... gone. There wasn’t even any spilled blood on his hand. If it hadn’t been for the damp red blotch on his cuff, he could have believed his latest punishment was something he’d dreamed. It was a common nightmare, after all, as though his mind had decided physical punishment alone could not suffice. Hardly aware he was speaking aloud, he mumbled, ‘But this ... it can’t be a dream, otherwise - ‘

‘Otherwise I wouldn’t be here with you. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?’ Graves released his grip and stepped slightly to the side, allowing Credence enough to space to turn to fully face him. ‘You suffer so, and all because of the blind hatred of others. Believe me, there are those who would welcome you. Cherish you. As I do. You are special, dear boy. I see it in you’.

Credence jerked away, backed up until he hit the opposite wall of the alley. ‘No. N-no, I’m not. Not special. Evil. The devil - Ma said I - ‘

‘Your mother is a mindless, cruel fanatic!’

Shocked into silence by the anger in Graves’ voice, Credence could only stare at the ground, feeling the fear rising, making him shake. He’d made the man lose his temper, and those terrible, unforgivable words, they were his fault, too. Ma would punish him doubly hard when he went home - first, for running away to hide, and second, for those words. _Then don’t tell her. She won’t know. And if she tries ... you can let me out._

Graves was speaking again, much calmer now. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. It’s just that I see you in such pain, and I - ‘ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to take that pain away from you. I want you to be free. To become who you are meant to be’. Incredulous, Credence listened to the man promising to heal his wounds, care for him, help him to be a whole person. To teach him the magic that would give him control over the blackest parts of his soul. _To be free_. He listened, and so much of him yearned for that. _Am I truly not evil? Could Ma be ..._ wrong _?_

 _You know she is. Stop lying to yourself. You know what you are. What you really are. You’re me. I’m you. We are power._ Very slowly, he raised his head and dared to look at Graves’ face. He saw neither mockery nor hatred, only sincerity and compassion. And something for which he had no name, but he’d seen it before, on the face of a father watching his son learning to ride a bicycle. It undid him. He reached out blindly, tears already beginning to spill from his eyes.

Graves caught him, wrapped strong arms about his thin frame, drew him close, and he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop the racking sobs that shook them both. He felt a hand stroking his hair gently, heard soft words, but still holding him, even after the storm had passed and he had nothing left and all he could think was, _never let me go. Never let me go_.

‘I’m sorry, Credence. I have to go, an important task’. His heart sinking, he stepped back, wiping roughly at his wet face, ducking his head. He felt fingers gently push up against his jaw. ‘Please look at me’. _Please_. Only the second time anyone had spoken that word to him, and both times by this man  who said he would care for him. ‘I can’t take you with me, not yet’. _Not yet._  With those words, he was able to look up. Graves slid his hand around and laid it against Credence’s cheek. Starving, Credence leaned into the caress. ‘But if you need me, come back to this alley and I’ll come to you. Just remember - you are strong, and special, and there is nothing, _nothing_  about you that is evil. Never forget that!’

Before Credence could reply, Graves took out his wand and moved a few steps away. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ he promised. He made the wand swoop through space in a complicated pattern, and was suddenly gone in a blur of movement.

For a long moment he simply couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. All he wanted was to stay right where he was until Mr Graves came back to him. In the end, though, he knew he had no choice, and his feet dragged as he slowly made his way back home, shoulders hunched, meeting no one’s eyes. When he reached for the front door handle, he half-hoped Ma had locked it against him. Finally cast him out. The handle turned all too easily.

As expected, Ma set to punishing him for his disobedience. She didn’t even speak, just pointed towards the stairs. It wasn’t until he was in the act of taking off his belt that something in him broke through his habitual silence. ‘No,’ he breathed, a sound full of pain.

‘Do you dare say no to me, boy?’ she hissed, snatching the belt from him.

‘No ... please, Ma ... please don’t ... ‘

‘Get on your knees’. When he didn’t move fast enough, she grabbed him by his shoulders, strong, bony hands grinding against his bones so that he cried out. ‘I _said_ , get on your knees!’ She pushed, and his resistance was gone. He let her push him down. When she told him to take off his shirt, he could only whisper, _please_ , even as his fingers were betraying him, undoing buttons and sliding the cheap cotton from his shoulders.. He heard her beginning her prayers, heard the belt whistling through the air as she swung it, tried to brace himself. He tried to cling to Mister Graves’ words, to the memory of being held and soothed.

He lost them even before he fainted from the pain.

 

**********************************

 

_Have I been telling lies to myself? ..._

_I am so afraid to be, at all ..._

_I am so afraid to love, at all_

 

_19 years old_

 

He knew what he was now. Not human, not tormented and tempted towards damnation by a whispering voice deep in his soul. He was exactly what Ma had always said - unnatural, of the devil. He remembered, now, the rage, the terror, building and building until he thought the screams would force their way past his hands, clapped over his mouth. Remembered his body tearing itself into black ribbons that flung themselves around an empty centre, his mind, his _power_ , somehow present in every shred. Remembered flinging himself, the whirlwind, through the streets of the city wreaking havoc and vengeance for every slight, every slur, every blow.

And _oh, god help me_ , the black joy of destruction made him drunk, made him laugh even while he howled for someone, anyone, to stop him. _Mister Graves_ , _please,_   _please._   But Graves didn’t come for him, and he ripped up the roads in the Hollow where he was spat on, destroyed the stoop where he was beaten half to death. Paused momentarily to extend his senses, but couldn’t find the boys who left their bootmarks all over him. _Too bad._  But there was always more to destroy, and the longer he could stay like this, the easier he slept after the rage was sated ( _for now_ ) and he finally slowed down and fell back into himself.

He didn’t remember his dreams anymore. There was only black lightning and destruction, shame and pain, fighting and feeding each other. Somewhere, there is Credence, still that desperate boy who tried so hard to be good, to please Ma, to be loved..

And the terrible irony was that it was because of Ma that he finally broke down the wall that had kept him from remembering. Her beatings, increasingly vicious, increasingly bloody. Breaking his fingers with one well-placed stamp of her boot when he tried to protect himself. Locking him for hours, sometimes days in the basement, no food, and only the damp that trickled down the walls to drink, mouth pressed against the damp stone.  She took a particular satisfaction, it seemed, in seeing marks she’d left on his face after slapping him repeatedly with the small Bible she carried in her apron pocket.

He’d tried to submit. To bear the punishments as he’d always done, but he was older now, and the conviction was growing in him that Ma’s enthusiasm was not borne of piety, but of some darker need. He never spoke of it to Mister Graves, even when he could barely walk to the alley and slump against the wall, fighting to hang on until the man appeared beside him and he could be cradled, healed. Cherished.

Except that the spells didn’t seem to work as well anymore. It felt like his own body resisting the magic, and Graves could only encourage healing to begin, and dull the worst pain. He couldn’t reset the broken bones. He couldn’t heal the splintering, fracturing person inside the broken body. And so, when the wall finally collapsed, and he saw what he was, he embraced it, hating himself.

And Graves must have sensed it, because he stopped talking about teaching Credence magic. Instead, he spoke of his need to find a particular child, infinitely powerful but without any understanding of their potential. ‘It’s close to you, I sense it. You must find that child - you’ll know when you confront it - and bring it to me so I can protect it and guide it’.

 _Like you did for me? Will you push this child away, too, when you find another more worthy?_  But these were thoughts that he only let surface late at night, wide awake and hurting so much that he could not sleep. It was his own fault.

He searched everywhere. Tried to sense what Mister Graves had told him should be obvious, but he received were scornful glances and withering scorn. The girls had learned their lessons from Ma all too well. Every child who visited the orphanage for food, every boy or girl passing on the street where he stood with his pamphlets, any one of them could be the right child, and he had to steel himself each time to meet their eyes and try, and fail again.

When he reported his failures, Graves’ face would fall in disappointment - but there was something else there, something growing stronger. Anger, barely held in check, but Credence knew that it was only a matter of time, and so he stopped allowing himself to look at Graves’ face, fell back into his familiar, slightly hunched posture, tried to be ready for a blow that never came. And somehow, it was worse, the tension winding tighter in him until Ma pushed him past the point of endurance, and he tore himself apart again.

Every time he became the whirlwind, it was harder to come back. Soon, he knew, he wouldn’t be able to. He would destroy. He would kilI. And he would howl.

 

**********************************

 

_I, I looked into your eyes and saw_

_A world that does not exist_

_I looked into your eyes and saw_

_A world that I wish I was in_

 

_20 years old_

 

They were calling out to him, trying to reach through the whirlwind. The woman, pleading for him to stop, telling him she knew what he’d suffered, telling him that Mister Graves was just using him. Graves, quick to deny it - ‘I just want you to be free!’ And he knew she was right, had known for a long time now that Graves had never truly cared, but he can’t help himself. He started to come together, fighting the desire to simply lash out and silence them all. Even the man with the mop of red hair who crouched by Graves, who looked into the blackness, and seemed to see him, see _Credence_. Not the monster.

It was only then - seeing that look, those eyes, clear and kind and utterly without judgment - that he realised just how far he’d let himself ignore the nagging doubts. How far he’d deceived himself. How he had never been more than a means to an end. He felt himself grow smaller, more solid, all the aches and scars becoming real again. Wanting only to disappear, held by a faint, fading hope that there was still something, someone for live for.

The red-haired man stood up, slowly spreading his arms, palms out (and so many scars there, too) to show he held neither wand nor weapon. Credence just waited, shivering, fraying at the edges. He saw the man take a breath to speak -

And suddenly the world was nothing but pain, stabbing, piercing from everywhere at once, ripping him to pieces. Pulling the black ribbons from the whirlwind and shredding them as he twisted, blind instinct to flee, but he was disappearing. Dying. Knowing that made him weep with relief even as he screamed. It was over. No more punishments, no more lies. No more _need_. Nothing. There were voices, pleading for it to stop, roaring with anger, but they were so faint, so far away. All he could see were the red-haired man’s eyes, shining with tears of despair, hurting for him. He wanted to tell him it was _all right, please don’t cry for me_ , but his words were gone.

He let go.

 

**********************************

 

  _All I know is that I’m here_

_Drifting high up in the vast_

_Somewhere in eternity_

_And I never want to leave_

 

A single, ragged shred of black ribbon, high above the city, carried aimlessly by the wind.

Free.

 

 

 

 


End file.
